


I Don't Love You, Too

by Dansnotavampire



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: (or re-developing), Angst, Apologies, Betaed, Canon Compliant, Character Development, Complicated Human Emotions, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, It takes them a fucking WHILE y'all, Kepler Comes Back AU, Kepler just has an office job, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Longer Dead character, Pining, Post-Finale, Reconciliation, Slow Burn, Sorry for the Britishisms, Teacher Daniel Jacobi, Trans Daniel Jacobi, emotional catharsis, eventually, he's boring, ish, minor gore for the first chapter, technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:00:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25166602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dansnotavampire/pseuds/Dansnotavampire
Summary: “The purpose of an apology,” Warren mutters aloud to himself, “is to recognise what you did wrong, and make sure you don’t let it happen again.”
Relationships: Daniel Jacobi & Alana Maxwell, Daniel Jacobi & Original Female Character, Daniel Jacobi & Warren Kepler & Alana Maxwell, Daniel Jacobi/Warren Kepler
Comments: 59
Kudos: 68





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alfie_aurel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alfie_aurel/gifts), [DrowningInStarlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrowningInStarlight/gifts).



> I can't believe I'm still writing these two, oh god - also, this fic is already finished, so new chapters should be coming out every week! And finally, many thanks to theo, rowan, and hector, for hyping me up while i wrote this, and picking up on my typos.

When Warren Kepler comes back, wakes up,  _ is remade,  _ it hurts. ‘Hurt’ isn’t really a strong enough word for it, in all honesty, but it does not make him a martyr in the way that agony would. He is rebuilt, atom by atom, nerve by nerve, bones and then muscle fibers, then blood and then skin, every part of him twitching, screaming,  _ hurt.  _ It hurts to be reborn. He wasn’t prepared for that. 

Logically, Kepler  _ knows  _ that he is  _ not  _ Warren Kepler, in the same way that Isabel Lovelace was not Isabel Lovelace, and in the same way that whatever was on the outside of that shuttle, a lifetime and a week ago, was  _ not  _ Daniel Jacobi. He doesn’t care. 

Which is a surprise. It shouldn’t be, given who he is, given the times he has remade himself, given that for the last handful of years he has been the artist formerly known as himself, a painting of a statue rather than any original flesh. Still. The statue that he is a painting of would know what to do in this situation, and so does he. 

First: compartmentalise. Take the fear, take the pain, take the endless scream of  _ I’m not a human anymore _ and shove it in a box, to deal with when you’re safe. 

Second: take stock of your surroundings. A cold seat underneath him, blank walls around him. A surprising lack of blood on the floor, given the pain he had just been through. A sudden voice from the ceiling, or maybe from the floor? It sounds like Douglas Eiffel, and it asks Kepler where he wants to go. Where he wants to take his second chance at humanity. 

“Earth,” he says. “America. Central Boston, specifically, if you can manage it. I’ll be fine from there.” He doesn’t know how much the Dear Listeners know about him, about what he left in Boston, but frankly, he doesn’t care. It’s the only place where he might find anyone he knows, anyone he  _ wants  _ to know. He only hopes he can remember the address properly. 

**_Very well,_ ** comes the voice, and a blink later, Kepler is sat on a familiar street corner, with the night sky dark overhead, ten minutes walk away from his favourite sandwich shop, and fifteen minutes away from Jacobi’s old apartment. Hopefully he still lives there - hopefully he’s still  _ alive.  _ The fact that there are still people walking around, even at this seemingly-late hour, that Cutter didn’t manage to destroy the world gives him hope, but Kepler likes to think that he’s been alive far too long to let hope be a basis for his actions. 

For most of his actions, anyway. Walking up to Jacobi’s old apartment block, buzzing the neighbour above his floor, and spinning them some lie about having lost his keys is an action based on hope. Walking up to Jacobi’s - to  _ Daniel’s  _ \- door, (or at least the door that used to be his) and knocking on it, is the most  _ hopeful _ thing that Warren Kepler has ever done. It’s a leap of faith, in a way. 

A distant voice sounds from somewhere in the apartment.  _ “Coming!”  _ it says, and then mutters, “Jesus christ, who the fuck is knocking on my door at this time of night.” 

It  _ sounds  _ like Jacobi, and Warren’s heart attempts to lurch in his chest. Then the door opens, and the person behind it has the same messy curls as Jacobi, the same scar on the lip, the same slightly shocked intake of breath that Warren knew so well, once upon a time. 

The person has the same  _ punch _ as Jacobi, too, and Warren’s face splits into a grin, just as the skin of his lip splits as well. ( _ He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive!  _ sings an elated voice in his head, one that so rarely gets to speak. A lifetime and a half of practice is the only thing that stops Warren from saying it out loud.) 

It takes him a moment to reorient himself, and for the ringing in his ears to die down. “Hi, Jacobi,” he drawls, far more casual than he feels. “Long time no see - can I come in?” 

Daniel feels his heart jump in his chest when Kepler speaks, the slow drawl, the artificial ease with which he talks making him finally seem  _ real,  _ real and warm and alive. 

Still, no matter how much he  _ missed  _ Kepler, no matter how much he  _ grieved,  _ and  _ cried,  _ and no matter how many nights he spent curled up around a bottle of whiskey, Daniel can’t forgive him. Can’t let him just  _ come back  _ and pretend that everything is - is what? Fine? It can’t be. Not yet. 

So he opens the door, and lets Kepler step through. Sits him down on the couch, and says “I’m not asking how you’re here - I don’t want to know. I can - someone should be able to help you with being legally not-dead again, like they did with Lovelace and the others, but we can deal with that  _ tomorrow.”  _ His voice cracks on the last word, just slightly. 

“How long has it been?” Kepler asks, voice soft in the quiet of the night. 

“Two years, give or take.” 

Kepler sucks in a breath, and opens his mouth to speak again, but gets cut off by Jacobi. “You’ve got two weeks to find yourself a therapist and your own apartment,” he says. “I’m not- I can’t deal with this, Warren, not right now. I thought you were  _ dead.” _

Kepler just nods, Jacobi’s orders - because that is what they were, really - punching the wind out of him. He gets it, gets why Jacobi can’t have him here, but it still stings. 

“I’ll be out of your hair soon,” he promises. And then, “What day is it? I don’t exactly have a way of tracking that.” 

“Wednesday, twelfth of February. Also, it’s just gone eleven, and I get up at six for work tomorrow, so I’m going to sleep. Spare room is down that hall, the one next to the bathroom, there should be some pajamas in one of the drawers, but I can’t promise they’ll fit.” He stands, and heads towards his own room, but pauses at the doorway, one foot over the threshold. He looks back over his own shoulder, and says “I don’t need you out of my life completely, Warren. I just - I can’t have you living here. Not right now.” He doesn’t wait for a reaction before he disappears off to sleep, but the hint that Kepler might still be able to be in his life is enough to loosen the knot forming in his chest. 

And Kepler knows that they need time apart, to really get used to the idea of being  _ alive  _ but  _ separate.  _ Which is why, when he goes to sleep, he is glad for the lack of Jacobi’s scent on the sheets, instead of lamenting it. 

\---

Kepler wakes up early, the next morning. Not suspiciously early, but the kind of early that usually follows a nightmare, or precedes an important mission - preceded? Goddard hardly exists anymore, and even if it did… this is a second chance. Kepler wouldn’t go back there if they paid him, he realises, the thought a strange one, but hardly unwelcome

Instead of trying to go back to sleep, he gets up, still dressed in what he can only assume are Jacobi’s ill-fitting pajamas, and heads into the kitchen. (Which definitely doesn’t take him three tries to find. Not at all.) It’s strangely familiar, every drawer containing almost exactly what Kepler expects it to, even though the one time he’d stayed here before he hadn’t even used the kitchen, except for as a floor to bleed out on. The wood flooring has been scrubbed clean, the rust-brown stain gone years ago, but Kepler still remembers it. Kepler’s  _ body _ remembers it, the slice of the blade, the hitch in his breath, even though  _ it is not the same body.  _ Not technically. It has the same memories, though, and it  _ wants  _ to be the same body, so maybe that will have to be enough for now.

The body that it is reaches a hand (mechanical) over towards the fridge, and grabs a couple of eggs, cracking them into a bowl. Kepler grabs cheese, and some chives, quickly chopping and grating and mixing with a practiced expertise. Fifteen minutes later, just as Jacobi’s alarm goes off, Kepler is tipping a second omelette onto a plate

“Cooking for me won’t make me let you stay here, Warren. No matter how good it smells.” Jacobi is leaning against the door frame, a wry smile on his face, his hair unbrushed. He looks… soft. Delicate, almost.  _ Precious _ , though that might just be Kepler’s traitorous heart giving him ideas

“I wouldn’t expect it to, Jacobi,” he says. “I just figured I could do something… to say thanks. For putting me up, until I can find somewhere else

“And because you know I can’t cook?” 

“And because I know you can’t cook - finding fresh herbs in here was almost as much as a surprise as waking up yesterday.” Jacobi’s face twitches in response to that, almost enough to make Kepler feel bad. The key word being  _ almost. _

“Just make sure you do the washing up after,” says Jacobi, grabbing his plate, and shovelling a forkful of omelette into his mouth. “This is really fucking good, though,” he mumbles around his full mouth. 

“Manners,” chides Kepler. 

“Shut up, you’re not my mother.” 

Kepler chuckles, and collects up the dishes that need cleaning, taking his time as he rinses them, and loads them into the dishwasher. By the time he comes back into the main part of the kitchen, Jacobi is gone, but there’s a note on the table.  _ ‘This is the lawyer’s phone number’  _ it says.  _ ‘She’s good, call her. Later, though.’  _ A phone number is scrawled underneath, all in Jacobi’s achingly familiar handwriting. 

In the meantime, Daniel Jacobi sits on a tacky subway seat, and he thinks. It's early enough in the morning that he could actually get a seat, this time, but not late enough for him to really have space, people's bodies cramped around him, the vague scents of sweat and of businessmen's cologne grounding him. Kepler's  _ back _ , in some form or another, and he has no idea what to do with it. Daniel can't let him stay, he knows - it wouldn't be good, for either of them. Kepler might to even be  _ human  _ anymore - oh, who the fuck is he kidding, there's no way Kepler is human, not after this long. Jacobi doesn't even know how he came back, but he can make a guess. 

That's something to deal with later, though. For now, he thumbs through a sketchbook, erases a highlight in a pair of eyes he never thought he'd see again, and tries not to think too hard about the  _ other  _ person who could have come back from the dead. 

(She deserved it more than either of them, after all.) 

If, later that day, his students notice something slightly off about him, none of them are brave enough - or maybe none of them  _ care  _ enough - to point it out. 


	2. Chapter 2

The lawyer is… far more competent than Kepler deserves. He gets his finances back in order in three days, just about, (“It took Lovelace a week,” Jacobi informs him over coffee) and finds an apartment and a therapist within ten. Cutter’s rampant paranoia over his secrets meant that the Black Archives were destroyed mere moments after his unexpected death - so no evidence of Kepler’s numerous crimes remains, outside of broken bones and destroyed buildings, empty graves and lonely lovers.

Neither him nor Jacobi mention this, to anyone, because that kind of selflessness isn’t found in people like them, and because admitting that they had done those things would mean admitting that they did them  _ together,  _ and that would mean admitting all the other things they did together, too.

And the other people that they did them with. The other  _ person _ , specifically. Jacobi thinks that he might cry, if he mentions her. That’s new, actually. The crying. It’s healthier than breathless anger, though, so he doesn’t mind it too much. 

They don’t really talk about anything important, in the days before Kepler sorts himself an apartment. Brief conversations about chores, or about clothes shopping (and doesn’t Kepler look good in a suit, the bastard, and when did Jacobi start wearing oversized sweaters and lipstick? It’s a good look on him, though. Softer.  _ Not  _ that Kepler spends his time thinking about Daniel like that, not at all.) No one says anything that matters. No one apologises. No one grieves. 

Until the last day, when Kepler, sitting opposite Jacobi over a last breakfast omelette, asks “Can I get a copy of that photo you have on the mantelpiece? The one-” 

“The one of us three? Where was that, Venice?” 

“Yeah, Venice - honestly, how we got Alana to actually wear her suit, instead of showing up in jeans I will  _ never  _ understand. But, yes, I can send you the photo - I don’t have another physical copy of it, though.” He grabs a notepad and pencil, and shoves it at Kepler. “Here, write down your email or something, I’ll send it to you tomorrow.” Jacobi then pushes his chair out, and grabs his bag. “I’ve got to get to work, I’ll - I’ll see you around, yeah?” 

The door clicks locked behind him, and Kepler is gone by the time he gets back, the spare key left on the table, with a note left beside it. 

It takes Jacobi three days to miss Kepler, after that. It’s barely even a surprise, when he wakes up on the Saturday morning, and heads, for the third time, into the empty kitchen, to sit alone at an empty table, and clean up the dishes used by one man at an empty sink. He’s  _ lonely,  _ and it hurts. But… well, he can hardly invite Kepler back, can he? Not after kicking him out - and not when he  _ knows  _ they need the time apart, the time to get used to the other being alive again. 

That knowledge doesn’t stop him from wanting to do it, though. Wanting it is fine. Wanting never got anyone hurt, not permanently. 

He doesn’t wonder if Kepler misses him - both because there’s no point, and because there’s no way he could know. As much as he was better than anyone else at dissecting Kepler's half-ossified heart, that didn’t actually mean he was any good at it, just that everyone else was bad. Kepler would either miss Jacobi, or he wouldn’t. It didn’t matter. 

\---

Four days after that, Daniel texts him. Not to invite him back, he's not that foolish, and his heart doesn't rule that completely over his actions. Just to talk - it's barely a memorable text, in all honesty, just a random photo of someone's dog. A German shepherd, specifically, like Kepler once (briefly, at three am, in a moment of openness so rare that Jacobi could barely believe it happened) revealed that he'd had as a child. Five minutes pass, and then ten, until Jacobi finally caves and follows up with  _ how’s the new apartment? _

_ Good.  _ comes Kepler’s response. And then,  _ This is Jacobi, right? You didn’t give me your number.  _

Daniel snorts - he knew he’d forgotten something.  _ yeah, its me,  _ he shoots back. 

He doesn’t get a response. They text about other things, occasionally, over the next few months but the conversations never last more than five or six messages - they just don’t have anything left to say to each other anymore, not that can be said over text. Or maybe they have too much to say to each other - about the bottle of balvenie that  _ still  _ lives in one of Daniel’s cupboards, about the photo that now sits on Kepler’s bedside table, about the sketchbooks that find themselves fuller and fuller of portraits each day. 

These things find themselves forgotten, though, soon enough, and eventually they just… stop talking. It’s not like they don’t have other friends - Kepler has a proper job now, and the designers and middle-managers that he works with are fine enough company, even if their wits are never quite sharp enough to compare to Jacobi’s. The other teachers Daniel works with are kinder, too, than Kepler ever was, kind enough that he can almost ignore the anniversary, when it happens. He doesn’t buy himself fireworks this year, though. 

(He does wait for a text from Kepler, though. It never comes.) 

\---

Six months, three weeks, and four days after their last message - not that he’s been counting - Kepler goes in to work early. There’s not really any specific reason, really, other than the fact that he misses being able to go home before five. He wakes up, makes breakfast, and walks to the subway stop. 

When the train pulls up, he gets on, as he always does, and the fact that the only spare seat is next to an awfully familiar looking curly-haired man is something he puts down to mere coincidence. Until the man pulls out his phone, and three seconds later Warren gets a text.  _ what, you couldnt even say hi?  _

He laughs, quietly, and turns to the side, just a little. “I wasn’t entirely certain it was you,” he says. “Hi, Jacobi.” 

“Daniel. I prefer Daniel, now. It’s more…” 

“Human? Less military?” 

“Yeah, more human. More.. me, I don’t know.” There’s a brief lull in the conversation, and then Daniel continues. “Starting teaching was weird, actually. I almost had to ask the kids to stop calling me Mr. Jacobi, though I don't think the school would have been too happy. It.. is it weird to say it made me think of you?”

“If I had to deal with a bunch of annoying little kids calling me Sir all day, I’d be reminded of you too, Daniel.” 

“Aw, Warren - can I call you that? - That’s so swe- Wait!” 

“What, Daniel?” 

“You just called me an annoying child! And I’ll have you know, my students are  _ lovely. _ ” 

Warren grins, lopsidedly. “Technically, I called you an annoying little kid.” 

Daniel gives the same grin in return. “I hate you.” 

“Sure you do.” 

“Not as much as she seems to, though.” Daniel points his chin at a woman sitting opposite them, muttering something about their volume,  _ ‘especially this early in the morning.’ _

“Well, we are doing pretty badly at the whole subway etiquette thing, Daniel. Can you blame her?” 

“What, am I not allowed to be excited to catch up with an old friend?” Daniel says, and at that moment, he stands up, bag swinging off his shoulder. “Anyway, this is my stop,” he pinches his brows together, purses green-painted lips, and says “I’ll see you around, yeah?” 

“Yeah, of course,” Warren says, and - surprisingly - he means it. 

(He also plays the sentence  _ it made me think of you  _ on repeat in his head for the rest of the day, but no one else needs to know that. And if he puts in a request for his hours to be permanently moved earlier, well, then no one needs to know that except for his boss.) 

(Daniel Jacobi is just worth the lost sleep, that’s all.) 

\---

When Daniel gets home from work that day, with charcoal-smudged fingers and a surprising lilt in his step, it only takes him half a glass of liquid courage (cheap whiskey, in this case) to shoot off a message to Warren. 

_ so how come i havent bumped into you before now? youre only one stop after me  _ he sends, then immediately starts nervously biting at a fingernail.

The typing bubble appears, almost immediately.  _ Work changed my hours.  _ And then, a few seconds later,  _ Not that I mind too much - it means I finish earlier, too.  _

Daniel’s thumbs hover over his screen for a moment as he considers what to say next. After three - four - five typed out and deleted messages, Kepler takes the decision out of his hands. 

_ I meant what I said earlier, about ‘seeing you around.’ I’ll send you my address, if you want.  _

Daniel smiles.  _ yeah, that works. _

The text comes through a few minutes later, and. Huh. Turns out Warren has been living less than a fifteen minute walk away this whole time. 

_ youre less than 15 minutes away from me, you know that, right?  _ sends Daniel. And then,  _ you havent been avoiding me, have you?  _

Well. Fuck. Warren hasn’t been avoiding him, not  _ deliberately, _ but he can’t say that he hasn’t taken a slightly longer walk than normal to avoid walking past Daniel’s apartment block. 

Or.. he’s only done it a couple of times. Five, at most. Maybe six. Okay, he might’ve been avoiding Daniel. Just a smidge. 

_ I figured you’d want space from me. You know, after you kicked me out?  _ he sends back, because sometimes being petty  _ does  _ feel really good. 

_ i’m not apologising for that. i dont care how much it upset you, things would NOT have gone well if youd stayed with me _

A moment passes, as Warren tries to think of a reply, and then another text comes through.  _ still, thats something to tlk about face to face, i think. not right now, though - i’m far too sober  _

Warren snorts.  _ Tlk _ .

_ fuck you, warren.  _

The conversation dies for a few minutes, until Warren bites the bullet ( _ and how is he scared of doing this, now, more than anything else? _ ) and sends off  _ You should come over for drinks, on Friday.  _

_ to talk?  _

_ Not unless you want to.  _

A soft, secretive smile crosses Daniel’s face at that.  _ sure  _ he sends back.  _ is seven good for you?  _

_ Yeah, seven works. I’ll see you Friday.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they're working shit out! very slowly, but still


	3. Chapter 3

Daniel Jacobi is not  _ nervous  _ when Friday rolls around. He is not. He just reapplies his lipstick four times that morning, and changes his outfit three times before he leaves the house - he almost misses the train, in fact, when he goes back to change his jumper for another. (And he’s really not sure why he’s doing this, because fuck off is he wearing the same things he wears to work for drinks. It doesn’t matter.) 

He does make his train, though, and breathes a small sigh of relief when he manages to grab the last seat. Warren isn’t on the train today, for some reason that he didn’t deign to share with Daniel, a fact that he is not at all vaguely bitter about. 

(In his defence, telling Daniel that he had taken a day off  _ just _ to clean the apartment might have ruined the casual atmosphere of the drinks night, an event which neither of our characters are nervous about. Not at all.) 

In his further defence, he doesn’t know if that is something that the Warren-that-was would have done. He was clean, of course, and meticulously tidy, even when on the job and living out of a suitcase, but there’s a difference between sharp and artificial neatness, designed to intimidate, to appear superior, and scrubbing your apartment for most of the day to impress someone who you know doesn’t care about neatness - hell, Kepler had seen Jacobi rewear the same pair of socks for a straight week, and had smelt the secret ‘suitcase-aged’ brie. (Warren hadn’t smelt that, but that doesn’t stop him from remembering the way that it made the old body’s nasal passages  _ itch _ .) In short,  _ neat _ was not a word he would ever associate with Daniel Jacobi. 

So why clean the way that he had, the way that the version-from-before never would have? In the end, he decides that it doesn’t matter, and shoves it away into a box. Maybe he can talk to his therapist about it, next week. (Or maybe, if he ignores it for long enough, it’ll go away, and the Kepler-that-was and the Warren-that-is can be one and the same.) 

At six that evening, less than half an hour after he finishes cleaning, and whilst kneading his second stress-induced batch of bread dough, Warren gets a text.  _ want me to bring anything?  _

Warren hums for a moment, considering, and then shoots back  _ Not unless you don’t trust my taste in drinks.  _

_ i dont trust your taste in snacks, actually. _

And then, a few moments later Daniel sends _ snacktually.  _

Warren laughs at that, properly, for the first time in far too long. He never thought he’d  _ miss _ Daniel’s inane sense of humour, that’s for certain. It’s not too much of a surprise, though, in hindsight. There were lots of things about him that Warren had missed, even if he would never admit them out loud.  _ It’s fine, I’m fairly certain I remember what you like.  _

Daniel arrives at Warren’s apartment block at seven o’clock, on the dot. He then waits three minutes before calling him and asking to be buzzed in, because he didn’t want to look like he’d been nervous about this. (Warren doesn’t mention that he could see Daniel from his window. No sense in embarrassing the man, after all.) 

“Hey,” Daniel says, when Warren answers the phone. “I don’t know which apartment is yours, but can you buzz me in?” 

“Number twelve - I’ll be down in a moment to let you in.” 

“You can just-” the phone clicks as Warren hangs up. It’s nice to see that some things haven’t changed. “Useless ass,” mutters Daniel, but he’s smiling. 

Warren has flour in his hair when he opens the door. “Hey, come on up,” he says, and turns. Jacobi - Daniel? He can’t tell who he’s trying to be in that moment - follows instantly; falling into Warren Kepler’s footsteps is an action still ingrained into him, even after all this time apart. 

The first thing that Daniel (because that is who he  _ will  _ be, as much as he wants to fall back into old habits) notices when Warren opens the door is the smell of yeast, and fresh dough. The second thing is that the apartment is - other than a floury handprint on the flawless leather of the couch - is completely spotless. Intimidatingly so, and if this had taken place  _ before…  _ well, before everything, Daniel would have almost wondered if it were a power play. 

But if it were a power play, then Warren wouldn’t have answered the door with flour in his hair. Daniel knows him well enough to say that. 

“Were you nervous about this?” he asks. “You don’t have to be - it’s - I’m just  _ me,  _ Warren.” 

Warren pauses, almost comically, mid-step. “How did you know?” 

_ Because I know you,  _ Daniel almost says, but it’s too early in the evening and he’s far too sober for that kind of confession “You cleaned the entire apartment but didn’t get the flour out of your hair. It was either a power move, or you were nervous.” 

Warren quirks a familiar, faintly argumentative eyebrow. “And how did you know it wasn’t a power move?” 

“I think you’re not  _ quite  _ that much of a child.” 

“Says the man who pairs hot cheetos with cabernet.” 

“Not my fault you bought cabernet to a stakeout! Who does that?” 

The room goes silent for a second after Daniel’s shout, both of them frozen in place by the mounting tension, until, damn near simultaneously, they burst into laughter. Warren wipes a still-flour-dusted hand over his face, and says “God, why the fuck did I take  _ wine  _ on a stakeout?” 

“I think it was for post-job celebrations, to be honest. I just drank it because I was bored.” 

“You don’t even  _ like  _ wine, do you?” 

“Certainly not when it’s paired with hot cheetos.” 

Warren snorts a laugh. “Sit down,” he says, gesturing towards the couch. “What do you want to drink?” 

“Whatever you’ve got, I’m not too fussed.” 

Warren nods, and wanders back into the kitchen to grab some drinks. In the meantime, Daniel looks around the apartment. It is… almost exactly the same as Kepler’s old apartment had been, the one time he’d visited it, though he hadn’t been paying too much attention to the decor then (more to the blood on his hands, Kepler’s ragged-but-controlled breaths, Alana’s panicked voice, she’d never seen much blood before that. She should never have seen blood at all, maybe that would have kept her safe. They all spent far too much time bleeding into each other's arms for that, though.) 

(Still. She was one of the dead that they weren’t going to get back. And she wouldn’t have wanted him to still be sad.) 

There’s a few photos on the wall, artfully arranged in uneven lines. One is the Venice photo, all three of them in suits and masks, looking every bit as powerful and competent and dangerous as they were. There are more photos, ones that Daniel never even knew existed, of them camping, of Maxwell at the range, learning to shoot, of Jacobi asleep in the car, Maxwell drawing cat whiskers on his face. There are a couple he already knew about, too, but those feel like less of a punch in the gut. 

Warren comes back in with drinks, two beers in one hand and a bowl of crisps in the other. 

“Hey, can I get copies of these?” asks Daniel. “I didn’t even know some of these existed…” 

“What can I say, I must have been a really subtle photographer,” says Warren, a half-cocked smile on his face. 

“A good one, too. The light here,” Daniel says, gesturing to the one of him asleep, “Is, offensively nice.” 

“What can I say? I’m a man of many talents. Anyway,” Warren continues, sitting next to Daniel on the couch and turning on the TV, flicking on some random film for background noise, “what have you actually been doing lately? Kept in touch with any of the old crew?” 

(He doesn’t mention Maxwell, stepping neatly around the aching gap between the two of them that she should be there to fill. Daniel doesn’t bring her up, either. He’s not ready for Kepler to see him cry, no matter how much both of them have changed. No matter how much he misses her.) 

“Yeah, I talk to Lovelace on and off. She lives with Minkowski and her husband, now. They’re good for eachother, I think. It’s sweet.” 

“And Eiffel?” 

“Doug,” Jacobi corrects, absentmindedly. “It’s Doug, now. He, uh, he… he lost all his memories. So did Pryce. It’s… complicated. I don’t know too much about the whole situation, to be honest.” 

“Pryce is alive?” 

“I mean… the body is. She’s not the same, though - doesn’t remember most of what she did. I don’t think she’d remember you.” 

“Is it bad that I’m glad about that?” 

“Not at all - I would be, too.” 

Daniel turns his attention back to the TV, and tries to ignore the pressure of Warren’s knee against his thigh, tries to avoid sneaking peeks at him out of the corner of his eye, (tries to avoid checking that he’s still there, that he’s still real.) A silence slowly creeps over them, as worn out and familiar as it is uncomfortable. It is the silence of two people who knew each other, once upon a time, like the backs of their hands, and don’t any longer. It is the silence of unspoken apologies, and a broken promise, and of the wind howling through a lonely forest in the dark, the only thing between you and the wolves, a shotgun and a slowly-dying campfire. 

Or maybe it’s just a normal silence. Warren can’t tell. 

It is a silence that Daniel breaks, when he asks “So what have you actually been up to lately? It feels like I hardly know anything about you.” He says the last part quieter, but Warren hears it nonetheless, hears the  _ did I ever know anything about you?  _ woven into it. 

“Honestly? Not a lot. The most exciting thing I do is go on hunting trips once a month, these days.” 

“Missed the smell of gunsmoke?” 

“And of pine trees, weirdly enough.” 

“You should come hiking with me, sometime," Daniel says. "I think you’d like it.” 

“Want me to promise not to show you up?” 

“Nah, you wouldn’t be able to keep to it.” 

“Hey!” Warren snaps indignantly, even though he knows that Daniel’s right, really. Still, he has appearances to keep up.

The rest of the evening passes relatively uneventfully - Warren tries and fails to not be distracted by Daniel’s laugh, or the way his lipstick stains the rim of his beer bottle, and Daniel tries not to think too much about Warren’s forearms when he eventually shoves his shirt sleeves up. They end up finishing the loaf of bread that Warren started earlier in the evening, and Daniel describes it as “Ugly as fuck, but at least it tastes good.” 

(Warren’s made better, but he keeps quiet about it.) 

By the time Daniel goes home, it’s at least eleven, and he’s too drunk to remember that he still hasn’t  _ forgiven  _ Kepler, that he should still be mad at him - he shouldn’t have gotten back in touch. He did, though, and right now, he’s too busy remembering the good parts to be mad about the bad ones. 

It won’t last. He knows it won’t. That doesn’t stop him from wanting - wondering - hoping that they can do this again, sometime. Forgiveness feels less important, right then, with the moon-dark sky above him and the pavement beneath his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, comments and kudos mean the world to me


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's really short, sorry about that - fiction is a whimsical mistress

They don’t get to spend time together, or even really talk, for the month or so. Daniel’s pupils have exams coming up, and Warren is supervising some sort of changeover at work that he either isn’t allowed or doesn’t want to talk about. They still talk, even if never about anything serious. (Never about the gnawing anger in the pit of Jacobi’s stomach, the anger that Daniel still can’t let go of, never about the racing fear of not being human in Warren’s heart, the fear that Kepler would be so disappointed to have. These things can wait to be spoken about. Or they can be forgotten, in an ideal world.) 

At the end of exam season, Warren gets a text. Even more typo-ridden than usual, it says _hey warrwn wanna be my +1 to the ppst-exsm party we’re havinf?_

And then, five seconds later, _sprry, i’m typinh one handed._

Warren laughs. _I can tell. And sure, when?_

_next wwek, probably. we havent planned it yet, most of us are going to go home and sleep for three days_

_Only three?  
_

_we do have markinf to do, you know. never become a teacher, you wouldnt have the patience for it_

_How am_ I _the impatient one?_  
  


_fine, you wouldnt have the empathy to deal with thirteen year olds for so long, is that better?_

Ouch. That one hurt. (What hurts the most, maybe, is knowing that Daniel isn't exactly _wrong_ , is he?) 

_sorry,_ Daniel sends, a moment later _, that was… mean. i’m just tired, talk tomorrow?_

 _Yeah, sure. Get some rest._ sends Warren. ( _I am sorry,_ he types out after. Then he deletes it. It’s not what the real Warren Kepler would say. Or maybe it is; he can’t tell if he would know.) 

\---

What the real Warren Kepler would do, however, is massively overdress for a simple celebration, so when Daniel texts him ten minutes before he needs to leave just to double check that he does _know this is just a casual thing, right? Don’t show up in a three-piece suit,_ he has to rush to get changed into something slightly more appropriate for drinks with a bunch of teachers. He leaves the dress shirt on, though, partly because he doesn’t want to be late and partly because… well, it’s always nice to look nice, isn’t it? 

Daniel smiles at him when he gets to the station, his mouth painted a deep blue that matches his sweater perfectly. He also gives Warren a quick once over, and immediately says “You just changed out of a suit, didn’t you?” 

“Daniel Jacobi.” 

“Yes, Warren?” 

“Shut-” and here he half-spins on a heel to face Daniel - “the fuck up.”

Daniel makes a face at him. “Never - my ability to run my mouth is one of my most prized qualities, didn’t ya know?” 

“Bet that makes you popular with the kids,” Warren says. ( _“And here I thought it was your skill at blowing shit up,”_ Kepler doesn’t.) 

The bar that Daniel takes him to is small, but spacious - the lights are dim, warm and intimate, but the table that Daniel heads towards is easily big enough for the six people already sat there, and for a few more to show up throughout the evening. 

“Hey,” Daniel says as he approaches the table, “Everyone, Warren; Warren, everyone.” He turns to face Warren slightly, pulls out a seat and asks him what he wants to drink. 

“You come here more than me, I’ll have whatever’s good.” 

“Oh, sure. That works.” The grin on Daniel's face is as impish as any that Warren has ever seen, but he doesn’t question it. 

He realises that he should have questioned it, and also the smirks half-hidden behind at least three of Daniel’s co-worker’s hands, when he takes his first sip, and ends up with a mouthful that tastes _oddly_ like sriracha. 

“Daniel.” 

He’s too busy trying to smother a laugh to even respond, and the bite in Warren’s voice is nowhere near as hard as it would have been, had Jacobi tried this on Kepler. 

“Sorry about that,” says a short, olive-skinned woman with thick, dark hair. “We pull it on newcomers all the time - figured it should be his turn to do it, y’know. Also-” here she reaches a hand across the table- “Hi! I’m Ellie. Nice to meet you.” (There’s such a familiar brightness in her voice, and her fingers drum across the table in the same way that Alana’s used to whenever she was distracted. Warren tries not to think about it.) 

(He fails.) 

He smiles, though, and shakes her hand. “A pleasure. So, what lies has Daniel been telling you all about me?” 

Daniel pipes up from the seat next to him. “You don’t have to answer that!” 

“He said you were three foot two, dressed all in green, and had an irish accent.” Her delivery is a practically perfect deadpan, but her flat expression breaks after two seconds, and she bursts into a peal of laughter. “No, seriously,” she says, after she calms, “He didn’t tell us a lot - just that you weren’t as scary as you looked.” 

“Or as old!” says an older woman, sat in the corner. 

( _Am I older?_ he wonders, silently. _I didn’t age, in the two years I was dead. But they still passed. I suppose it hardly matters, at this point._ )

“Wow, rude,” he says, out loud, “I’m only just five years older than you, Jacobi.” 

(Neither of them quite manage to hide the shadows that pass across their faces, when he says that, but Daniel’s co-workers are either not perceptive enough to notice, or too polite to point it out.)

(And Daniel and Warren are, for once, not looking at each other.)

The conversation moves on, after that, to silly mistakes that students have made, and the troubles of marking, and Warren, social chamaeleon and liar extraordinaire that he is, starts to feel a little out of his depth. “Hey, I’m gonna go out for a quick smoke,” he mutters to Daniel, and stands up to leave, not really waiting for a response. 

With Warren gone, Ellie leans across the table to Daniel. “So,” she says. “What’s going on between you two?” 

“Nothing, Ellie. Literally nothing, don’t press.” 

“So he’s _not_ the reason you’ve turned down all of my offers to find you a date in the past what, year?” 

Daniel raises a severe eyebrow at her. “No, Ellie. He isn’t. And it’s only been nine months since he came back, anyway.” 

“Fine - is he single, then?” 

“Ellie!” 

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding… is he, though?” 

“Yes, and as far as i am aware you would _not_ be his type, so don’t try anything.” 

“I’m not asking for me, Daniel.” Her voice is soft, and Daniel doesn’t want to think about what she’s implying. _(Because it didn’t work before, and why would it work now, with so much baggage and blood shared and spilt between the two of you? All the pair of you are is proof that passion and loyalty can never replace open communication, and that apologies aren’t something you can just forget about.)_

The topic has changed again by the time Warren comes back in, and Daniel tries as hard as he can not to think about it for the rest of the night, not to exhaust himself (again) on an endless list of what-ifs and different timelines. No second chance is that effective, not really. 

\---

“So, I think you made a good impression,” Daniel tells Warren as they walk back towards the subway station. “Ellie certainly liked you.” 

“Does she-” 

“Remind me of Alana? Yep. I almost called her Maxwell about fifty times in my first week.” 

“Did you ever explain that to her?” 

“Not properly, no. She knows more of the tragic backstory than anyone else, but that’s still not a lot of it.” 

There’s a lull in the conversation, neither of them wanting to (or really knowing how to) talk about it.

Eventually, Daniel speaks. “It’s the tenth soon,” he says. “We should - we should go and visit her.” His voice is quiet, on the edge of cracking; quietly sad in a way that Kepler never heard from him.

“Yeah,” Warren replies. “We should.”


	5. Chapter 5

On the tenth of May, 2016, Alana Maxwell died. Other people did, too, but she was the most important. On that same day, a year later, Daniel Jacobi got drunk, alone, at her graveside. (He cleaned the broken glass off her grave - and didn’t extend the same courtesy to Kepler’s.) 

The year after that, he went to visit her, again, slightly more sober and slightly better adjusted. He cried, that time, which was unlike the version of him that she had known. That was probably for the better - compartmentalising may have been good for his job, but that didn’t mean it was good for  _ him.  _ Maxwell would have understood that. (Kepler wouldn’t. Would Warren? He didn’t know.) 

Three years after her death, Daniel visited her again, alone, even though he technically didn’t have to be. Kepler was  _ back _ , suave and charming and  _ awful,  _ though not as awful as he could have been. (Even if he had never apologised. Daniel didn’t start being angry about that until later, but he did come and scream at Kepler’s grave over it. It didn’t help.) 

Four years after her death (and how has it been so long? How does it still hurt that much? It hurts more, in some ways, than it did when it was fresh, grief counselling or no.) Warren Kepler goes with him, when he visits her. 

Retroactively, Daniel thinks that informing Warren of the existence of his own grave  _ might  _ have been a good idea. 

It goes something like this: Daniel takes Warren to the graveyard. They’re silent, on the way there, too afraid and too tragic to put into words. Having another person there, to share the grief with, makes it more real. 

They barely speak once they get there, either, just Daniel murmuring “She’s up this way,” and leading Warren over to the grave. To the graves. (They're empty, just coffins filled with long-rotted flowers, but they still mean something. They’re still better than nothing.) 

Daniel doesn’t have a gift with him, not even the customary bottle of cheap whiskey of his first three visits, but Warren has flowers with him, a pair of neatly-cut white asphodel. “ _ I’m sorry, _ ” he murmurs, as he places them on her grave. “ _ I should have been able to save you. _ ”

Daniel brushes broken glass off Kepler’s grave from his last visit, and sits down.  _ Will I only get an apology once I’m dead, too?  _ he thinks, but doesn’t say. A grave isn’t the place for that debate. (Would Alana have cared, though? Probably not. He still doesn’t say it.) 

Warren sits down, next to him, his shoulder brushing against the stone that he hasn’t yet realised belongs to him. “So, what do we do now?” he says, his voice quiet. 

“I… Don’t know. I’ve never had anyone else with me before. I tell her random shit - I told her about you, when you came back.” 

_ I had a dream where she told me to cut you out, completely, and another where she told me to beg you to stay. I wish I had listened. I wish I hadn’t. I sometimes wish you were still dead, Sir, because at least I know what to do with grief.  _

“What did you tell her?” he asks. “And whose grave are we sat on, anyway? Feels a bit disrespectful.” He stands, and his eyes catch the text on the gravestone. 

_ In memory of Warren James Kepler _

_ 7 _ _ th _ _ May 1977 - 28 _ _ th _ _ September 2016 _

_ Cowards die many times before their deaths; _

_ The valiant never taste of death but once _

_ Huh. Julius Caesar wouldn’t have been my first choice, for a play to quote,  _ is his first thought.  _ Is Daniel calling me a coward? Or valiant?  _ is his second. His third is less of a conscious, enunciated thought than it is a feeling, that of being punched in the gut, as he realises… he  _ died.  _ The artist formerly known as Warren Kepler  _ died,  _ alone, in space, and was  _ fine  _ with that, as fine as any man could be with that idea, and then he had come back, a perfect copy of the original, only distinguishable because Warren  _ knew  _ about the copies, about the aliens, but still distinguishable. Still not-human. 

Still  _ wrong.  _

He doesn’t realise that he’s hyperventilating until Jacobi - no, until Daniel, they’re not military - paramilitary, whatever - anymore - is in front of him, hands on his shoulders, telling him to breathe with the slightly eerie calm of someone who knows exactly how to deal with a panic attack, but didn’t expect to have to do it today. 

“Warren, I need you to hold your breath for me, okay? For a count of four, and then breathe again.” Despite the rapid pace of his breaths, Warren doesn’t feel lightheaded, or breathless, or like he even really needs to breathe at all.  _ Maybe I don’t,  _ he realises, and that… resets him wouldn’t be the right word, but it wouldn’t be the wrong one, either. His mind is still racing, but his breaths, as fake as they are, come at a normal pace again. 

“ _ I’m not human.”  _ He barely whispers it, half to himself and half to Daniel and half to the empty grave beneath him. 

“Were we ever?” replies Daniel, and even he doesn’t know if he’s trying to comfort him or stoke the fire. Maybe he just wants Kepler to admit that he was wrong - that he should  _ apologise,  _ for the deaths and the mind control and for the  _ dying,  _ for leaving Jacobi  _ alone.  _ “Were you, ever?” A hard bite of anger creeps into his voice, because it’s  _ late  _ and he’s  _ tired  _ and he  _ hurts,  _ and what better way is there to deal with that than by making someone else hurt, too? 

(His therapist would be disappointed. He doesn’t care.) 

“I don’t think a human would have done half of the things you did to me and Alana. I think a human would have at least apologised for them. And not just to the dead. And I don’t think a  _ human being  _ would have let me get mind controlled for weeks!” 

He stands, his clenched fists shaking, “And you know what,  _ Warren _ ?” he says. “You may not be human, but at least you’re  _ alive.  _ Count your fucking blessings - we both know she deserved to come back more than you did.” 

_ I know, _ Warren doesn’t say. He doesn’t move, in fact, simply sitting on his own grave, staring at Maxwell’s. “He’s right, you know,” he says, eventually, when Daniel is long gone. “You did deserve this more than me. I really am sorry, Alana.” 

It doesn’t bring her back. And it doesn’t make things better. 

  


\---

  


Daniel, when he gets home, ends up doing two things: getting incredibly drunk, and calling Ellie. It takes three tries to get through to her, which isn’t a surprise - it’s late, and it’s a school night. She was probably  _ asleep. _ “What’s up?” she mumbles, and, yeah, she definitely got woken up by him. 

“Hiii, Ellie,” he slurs, entirely aware of how drunk he sounds, and entirely uncaring. 

“Are you drunk?” she asks, but then, “No, don’t answer that. What did you do?” (She sounds  _ so much _ like Alana, sharp and full of care all at the same time.) 

“I fucked up! Not, it wasn’t - I didn’t start it, but, I fucked up. Not massively, because Kepler  _ entirely  _ deserves to feel awful, but still. I didn’t mean to - I don’t want - He can’t  _ leave  _ me, he’s-” 

Daniel’s sentence runs to a halt halfway through leaving his mouth. He’s what? What  _ is  _ Warren Kepler, to him? A reminder? An echo of a past he would rather forget? The last tether he has to Alana? These things are all true, and Daniel can’t say that he wouldn’t be fine if Kepler had stayed dead, but… 

But drinks, and making bread at ten in the evening. But fireworks, for a not-quite anniversary. Warren Kepler was (is?) his friend. 

“He can’t leave me.” 

“Daniel,” she murmurs, comforting despite her exasperation. “You might have to leave him - and that’s okay. That’s fine. You’re allowed to still care about him and recognise that he’s bad for you.” 

She’s right, of course, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. “Shut up, Ellie.” 

She sighs, long and weary. “Go to sleep. I’ll book some cover for you tomorrow - if he doesn’t apologise, I’m going to fight him.” 

“He’ll win.” 

“Shut the fuck up. Go to sleep.” 

He does. 

Warren walks all the way back home, in the end. The subway might still be running, but the cold night air on his skin (and why must all of their moments happen at night? Are they not allowed to see the day?) grounds him. And as he walks, black sky above him and black pavement below, he tries  _ exceptionally  _ hard not to think about what Daniel had just said to him (about how it cut into his chest in a way that he hadn’t felt since before Goddard, about how it felt a lot like finally losing something for good.) 

By the time he gets back to his apartment, any pretense he was making at not thinking about it has been abandoned. He’s not sure what hurts more, actually - the words themselves, or the detested truth behind them. 

Colonel Kepler had been a monster - not consistently, and not always deliberately, but he had been. Warren, despite the second chance he’d been given, had never apologised for his actions - and they were  _ his _ actions, even if the flesh had been rebuilt. 

_ “And even if you apologise..?”  _

_ “He doesn’t have to forgive me.”  _

It had been a conversation he had had with his therapist, once, before him and Daniel had started talking again. (He had stopped seeing her before they did, which was perhaps one of the larger mistakes of his life.) 

He had been right, though. Daniel didn’t  _ have  _ to forgive him - didn’t ever have to see him again, if he didn’t want to. That… that didn’t mean that Warren couldn’t apologise. 

It takes him two days to decide how he wants to do it, and another seven hours to build up the courage to message Daniel, but he does message him.  _ Hey, can I come over? I want to apologise.  _

He sends another message, a moment later.  _ Or we can meet up somewhere neutral, if you’d rather. It’s just not a conversation to have over the phone. _

Daniel ignores the texts when they first arrive, halfway through his last lesson, and he plans on doing so for the rest of the day, too, but he really can’t. He has a free period last, and ends up going to find Ellie, instead of marking homework - which, in his defence, is horrifically boring. She looks up from her marking when he knocks, and doesn’t even greet him before asking “What’s happened now?” 

“How do you know I don’t want to just spend time with my  _ favourite  _ computer science teacher?” 

“I’m the only compsci teacher you know. And, you look like someone just kicked a puppy, but it was a puppy that had insulted your mother.” 

“That’s… weirdly specific. And, yeah. Kepl- Warren texted me.” 

“And?” 

“And what?” 

“And what does that have to do with your kicked puppy face? I thought you didn’t want him to leave you, wasn’t that what you said?” The grin on her face isn’t malicious, exactly, but it has a certain  _ I told you so  _ quality to it. 

“He wants to apologise - he’s never  _ apologised  _ before, Ellie, I don’t know what to do with that! Or well, he’s never apologised  _ seriously. _ ”

“Daniel. Do you want him to apologise?” 

“Yes.” 

“Do you want to  _ forgive him _ ?” 

That stumps Daniel, momentarily - he wants Warren to say he’s sorry, and the vindictive part of him that Kepler himself helped cultivate wants to be able to say that it’s  _ not good enough, Warren.  _ Maybe he just wants him to  _ hurt,  _ for a bit. 

The larger part of him wants to forgive him, at least eventually. Or, if not forgive, then… fuck it. Warren was one of his best friends - not like Alana was, but still. Even if he can’t  _ forgive  _ him, Daniel doesn’t want to lose that. 

“I don’t know,” he says, eventually. “I don’t  _ not _ want to forgive him, but.. I want to make him earn it.” 

“So make him earn it!” she snaps. “But he can’t apologise if you won’t let him.” 

“Can you stop being right all the time?” he grumbles, but he looks  _ significantly  _ less like someone kicked a puppy that he had a personal vendetta against, so she counts it as a win. 

“Never, dearest. Now, go and... make your man apologise to you, or whatever, I have marking to do.” 

“He’s not my man!” Daniel yells over his shoulder, as he leaves. Ellie snorts. Maybe he isn’t  _ yet, _ but she’s sure it won’t be the case for too long.

(She ends up being wrong, but we’ll come back to that later.)

Daniel sends Warren a text, when he gets back home.  _ sorry, was at work. are you free tomorrow evening?  _

_ Yeah,  _ Warren sends back.  _ Yeah, I am.  _   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, i love your comments! it's always lovely to hear what people think of my work. also, feel free to chat to me about these two @dansnotavampire on twitter and tumblr


	6. Chapter 6

Tomorrow evening rolls around, eventually. To Daniel, it feels far too soon - every second passing another reminder that he still doesn’t quite know what he wants, for all his false confidence and decisiveness when speaking to Ellie ( _ I want to forgive him the second he walks through the door. And I want to make him beg for me to do so. And I want - I want him to not turn up. I don’t know. _ ) 

Conversely, Warren’s hours can’t pass quick enough. The impatience feels uncharacteristic to him, but then again, so does the very notion of apologising - he just wants things to go back to normal as soon as possible.  _ No,  _ he corrects himself,  _ Not normal. The purpose of an apology isn’t for things to return to normal.  _ “The purpose of an apology,” he mutters aloud to himself, “is to recognise what you did wrong, and make sure you don’t let it happen again.” 

And while some of those things  _ can’t  _ happen again, with the structure and ranks of Goddard left far behind them, they still need apologising for.

Warren spends half an hour writing down a list of all of his wrongdoings, and then promptly tears it to shreds - there is one resounding conclusion to be drawn from all of it, and it is that he should have been  _ better.  _

He goes over at twenty three minutes past seven. The time isn't that important, but the moment is, so he takes note of it anyway. He hits the buzzer at the door, asks to be let up, barely registering the words that he says. Walking up to Daniel's door and knocking on it is much the same, every step he takes feeling slightly to the left of reality. 

The apology, however, is  _ painfully  _ real. (And, to be honest, really painful. Not in a bad way, though.) 

It goes like this: 

Daniel opens the door, and just… stands there, arms folded, hip cocked. His eyebrow is raised, in a slightly disapproving fashion. "Go on then," he says. "Apologise." 

_ Fuck.  _

"I… am sorry. I - throughout the time we knew each other, I was… I behaved poorly towards you." Despite the repeats, and the rephrasings, Warren is talking with a familiar flavour of condescending confidence, slow and practically luxurious. 

Until…

"Cut the shit, Warren. Apologise properly - and like you  _ mean  _ it." 

There is a  _ bite  _ there, a sweet, sharp anger that makes Warren really  _ think.  _ "Daniel. I am sorry - for what Pryce did, for Klein, for Max- for  _ Alana. _ " He pauses, takes a breath. "I am sorry that you met me. I'm not saying I would take it back, if I could - you're too- I-" he exhales, long and slow. "Fuck, Daniel, you are currently the most important person in my life - you were, too, at Goddard, and I am  _ sorry  _ that you had to have me there." 

Daniel raises an eyebrow at him.  _ You can do better, _ it seems to say. 

"There were a lot of things that I did where… where I was wrong. And people died." Warren pauses, and inhales, and looks Daniel in the eye. "And the only thing I can do, is not be wrong again. I am sorry, Daniel. I mean it." 

"Fuck off," says Daniel, with a kind of awed, breathless disbelief. "Fuck  _ right  _ off, I cannot believe you remembered that." 

"I mean, you were right." He opens his mouth, as if to add something, but then shuts it again - this apology isn't  _ for  _ him, after all. 

_ Oh god, I could kiss him right now,  _ Daniel thinks. He hasn’t had a thought like that in - in  _ years,  _ and it hits him like a tonne of bricks. Still. Now is… not the time for that. An apology, after all, does not mean that he’s changed ( _ though by now,  _ Daniel thinks,  _ there have been enough signs that he has. I still don’t have - I don’t  _ owe  _ him forgiveness.)  _ “Thank you for apologising,” he says, stepping back from the door and letting Warren into the apartment. And then, heart in his throat, he asks “Do you wanna come in for a drink?” 

Warren stammers a little, having expected nothing short of a door slammed in his face, but eventually says "Sure - what you got?"

“Dunno,” Daniel says, with a shrug. “Beer, probably.”  _ (He has a bottle of Balvenie, one that used to be Kepler’s, in the cupboard, somewhere, but he’s not going to let Warren know he kept it yet.)  _

An awkward, tense silence settles over the two of them as they drink their way through the twelve beers that Daniel has in his fridge, and pick over some reheated pizza. Warren breaks it, eventually, though, by saying “Do you want to talk about why you had to kick me out? Or,” he pauses, briefly, to get his words in order. “Or do you want to wait.” 

‘ _ No, I don’t want to talk about it,’  _ is Daniel’s first thought, but - no. Fuck it. 

“Sure; Warren, as much as I care about you - as much as I  _ grieved  _ for you, during the two goddamn  _ years _ you were gone-” and he’s not going to cry, he isn't, - “I couldn’t have you living with me because you used to  _ rule my life  _ \- I needed to get to know you as a  _ friend,  _ not as the man who saved and ruined my life all at once. I still do, in a way.” 

“What can I do to help?” 

“Nothing, really. I mean, it was your job - just following orders, and all that.” 

“Doesn’t matter - they were shit orders. I should have been kinder to you," Warren hesitates a moment, and then adds "It was a shit company.” 

“ _ Fuck  _ Goddard,” Daniel spits, emphatically, and raises his can to Warren.

“Fuck Goddard,” Warren agrees, tapping his can to Daniel’s in a half-assed toast. “Good benefits, though. Loved the employee vacations.” 

“You got vacations?” 

“Yeah - we went to Thailand, once, you’d have loved it.” 

“I know I would! Is there a  _ reason _ me and Alana weren’t important enough for you to take us, or?” 

“... Would you really want to come on a vacation with Rachel Young and Marcus Cutter.” 

“ _ Oh.  _ Definitely not, no. You should have still taken us to Thailand, though.” Warren opens his mouth, presumably to remind Daniel that they _ had,  _ in fact, been to Thailand, but Daniel cuts him off. 

“You should have taken us to Thailand for  _ non _ -murdery purposes, you ass.” 

Warren chuckles, deep and low in his throat. “Okay, I deserved that.” 

“Yep.” 

Warren goes home soon after. The evening - the evening had been  _ nice,  _ a word Daniel never expected to use to describe his relationship with Warren Kepler. It’s a good word to be able to use, though. It’s… well, it’s nice. 

\---

Despite the niceness, though, it takes them _time_ to rebuild their friendship - a history that’s that fraught with argument, with loyalty, with betrayal… it has to take time. It’s time that both of them are happy to invest, though, into drinks nights with Daniel’s coworkers, into a very fun, but rather unsuccessful, hunting trip (Warren learns that the warmth of a fire is much less comforting than the warmth of a companion at his side, Daniel learns that the smell of bonfire smoke is a beautiful accompaniment to Warren’s cologne, and learns the shape of his throat when thrown back in a laugh. _‘You know, friend stuff?’_ says a voice in his head, one that sounds half like Ellie and half like Alana, and _what is it with the women in his life and trying to make him kiss Warren?_ ) 

The only thing that really changes for Warren, is that he stops pretending, at least to himself, that he didn’t fall in love with Daniel Jacobi the moment he pulled a gun out and told Minkowski to shoot him - and sure, it’s hardly the  _ healthiest  _ way to realise your feelings, but at least it’s memorable. 

He loves him differently now, though. Obviously, he loves him differently; for starters, he has a  _ chance  _ now, outside of the chain of command, away from imminent death and plans to destroy the world. No longer the half-self he had become, the artist formerly known as himself - it might have taken a  _ literal  _ death for it, and a fair few spiritual ones, but he’s finally grown the fuck up. (He thought he’d done that, in the minutes before his death, when he realised that Cutter’s plans were abominable, but one act in the name of good isn’t the same as changing.) 

\---

  
  


A fair few months - almost a year, in fact, after what Daniel has dubbed  _ ‘The Apology’  _ in his mind, (because it’s better than calling it  _ ‘the night I realised that I  _ still  _ want to kiss my ex-boss’ _ ) he shoots Warren a text. That in itself is hardly a rare occurrence, but the content - and the events following the text - make it noteworthy. 

_ hey, i still have that bottle of balvenie you left me. wanna come over and drink it? _

Warren, never one to turn down free whiskey, or time spent with a slightly tipsy (more open, flush-cheeked, more tactile) Daniel, sends back  _ Yeah, sure. I’ll be round in 20. _

Warren lets himself in, when he gets there - they had swapped spare keys a few weeks back, ‘ _ for convenience's sake _ ’ (and for no other reasons, not at all.) Mostly what this means is that Warren sometimes has to go back and grab Daniel’s things on his lunch breaks, or on his rare days off. 

Sometimes, though, it grants Warren rare treats - like the sight of Daniel, curled up in the corner of his sofa, sketchbook in his hands. His hair is mussed, brown curls escaping their bun at all angles, and he has the tiniest wrinkle between his eyebrows. 

Warren gestures with the bag of crisps he has, saying “Hey, I brought snacks,” because if he had stood there watching for much longer, he’s not sure if he would have been able to look away. Also, frankly, it would have been a bit weird. 

“Hey,” Daniel says, lifting his feet off the sofa, ready to put them back down in Warren’s lap the moment he’s seated, as he has done so many times before. “Come sit.” 

Warren doesn’t sit, though, instead staring at the coffee table where the bottle sits. Where the bottle sits,  _ alone,  _ with no glass. “Daniel. Where are the glasses.” 

Daniel puts his feet back on the sofa, and looks up. “I was honestly going to drink it out of the bottle - is that a problem?” 

Warren doesn’t even dignify that with a response, just raising an eyebrow in a  _ Really?  _ face. Daniel sighs. “There are glasses in the kitchen cupboard, by the oven.” 

Warren knows which one he means, and goes to grab a couple of glasses - a feat he realises is impossible when he sees that there is, in fact, only one appropriately sized-and-shaped glass in there. “Daniel?” he calls. “There’s only one whiskey glass.” 

“Let me guess, this makes me a disgrace, and we can’t be friends anymore? It’s fine, just grab a different one - or a mug, I don’t care.” There’s a brief pause, one in which Warren opens his mouth to say that  _ there’s no way Daniel is drinking whiskey that pricey out of a fucking  _ mug, but Daniel says something first. 

“Or we can share, if you’re that stressed about it.” 

Warren almost backs down, almost agrees to the mug, just because he’s not sure if he’s ready for it, for drinking from a glass warmed by both of their hands, for placing his lips where Daniel’s had left smudges of wine-red lipstick mere moments earlier, for… for any of it. 

Still, his mother didn’t raise a coward - partly because she had put very little effort into raising him at all - so he grabs the single glass, and brings it back into the living room. He sits on the sofa, and Daniel’s feet immediately find their home in his lap as he pours a glass. 

They don’t talk about much that night, just sit on the sofa together and watch crappy films, slowly making their way through most of the whiskey. (As Warren drinks, he tries not to think about how it has been warmed by Daniel's hands, about how the red smudges on the rim of it came from Daniel's lips. He fails.) 

Daniel's a touchy drunk, always has been, and he ends up with his head tucked into the hollow of Warren's shoulder, curled into him. Warren, on the other hand, doesn't get drunk. He drinks, sure, always has, but even now - even when he no longer needs it - he can't let himself lose control like that. So he is almost completely sober, and has all of his faculties intact, when he puts an arm around Daniel, strokes a thumb over his arm, the gesture as soft, as tender, as delicate, as any he would ever let himself make. 

What he isn't in control of, however, is his heartbeat when Daniel presses his face into him, laughing at some random joke on the telly. It  _ races _ , and he hopes against hope that Daniel can't tell, that he won't react, won't break the glass-thread tension around them. 

(He can tell - of course he can - but he doesn't react other than to smile, privately and softly to himself.) 

The end of the night - or more accurately, the start of the morning - rolls around, as it is wont to do, and Warren gently removes Daniel's feet from his lap, and then lifts himself from the sofa. "I should get back," he says, regretting the words the moment they leave his mouth, hoping against hope that Daniel will ask him to stay the night, and then the night after that, again and again _ad_ _infinitum._

"Oh? Oh, yeah, it's late," Daniel says, trying not to look put out by the sudden loss of warmth. 

_ "Want me to walk you back?"  _ he almost says, unable to push past the hopeful-fearful-longing and bite them out. 

_ "Want to stay the night?"  _ There are the tiniest smudges of his lipstick on Warren's mouth, and he thinks that with the right questions, he could put more there. (Not while he's drunk, though. Warren doesn't touch people like that when they're drunk.) 

He doesn't ask, though, fear colouring his longing more powerfully than alcohol-induced bravado. Warren leaves, walks away into the night - it would feel profoundly tragic, were it not for the  _ Tonight was fun. We should do it again, some time _ that lights up Daniel's phone moments later. 

_ You have to get more whiskey glasses, though.  _

(Daniel spends his next day off with his face buried in a sketchbook, committing the memory of a lipstick-smudged Warren to paper. He doesn’t look at the drawings afterwards.) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this late? yes. on the plus side, you should be getting 2 chaps this week


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINISH TIME BABEY! Sorry this is late, I don't know what time is

Relationships were... weird. They always had been, for Daniel - especially with the  _ realising he was a boy thing,  _ and then  _ realising he  _ liked  _ boys  _ a few years after that. A work environment that taught him that any emotions he might dare to have should be at least twelve places down on his list of priorities really  _ hadn’t  _ helped. Confessions, as well, were a thing that had been shunted firmly into the category of  _ not for me  _ at a fairly early age. 

So, when Daniel Jacobi, on a sunny August evening, tells Warren Kepler that he loves him, it is no surprise to either of them that it happens completely by accident - and it is no surprise to Warren that it manages to happen only two days before his meticulously planned confessional dinner-date. 

The day of  _ the confession  _ starts mostly normally - Daniel oversleeps, but only by five or so minutes, and only realises once he has gotten to work, (alone - Warren had taken the day off) and is halfway through first period, that he's left his bag at home. He has a computer, and a small collection of art supplies, but the lack of  _ lunch  _ might be a slightly larger problem. 

Still - it's not too late, and Warren will  _ probably  _ wake up early enough to get his lunch to school if Daniel texts him. 

(There is a chance that he sleeps in till four, though, if he's had a tough week - Daniel's tried to tell him to push himself less, many times, but it never really gets through. He really  _ should  _ take more care of himself, but getting him to admit that is a challenge for the ages.) 

_ hey, ur at home, right? can u stop by and bring my bag to school? i left it on the side lmao.  _ He doesn't imagine sharing a home with Warren as he types it - can't, at least not in daylight. 

(Instead, he saves those daydreams for late and lonely nights, when he can pretend he stands half a goddamn chance.) 

Daniel hasn't had a response by the time his first lesson rolls around, so he resigns himself to having to fork out for cafeteria lunch, or for the shop across the street - not the best of options, but better than going hungry; and at least he can eat his lunch when he gets back. 

\---

Warren wakes up around half eleven, after about thirteen hours sleep - less than he expected, given the hours he'd been pulling lately - and rolls over in bed, picking up his phone and checking his texts. One from his boss, telling him that work would have his computer fixed by the end of the week, and one from Daniel, asking if he was home, and if he could grab his lunch. 

He fires back a  _ Sure _ , despite knowing that Daniel is teaching at the moment, and won't get the message until his lunch break, before getting dressed, and leaving the house. The walk to Daniel's is so  _ familiar  _ now - he's not sentimental enough to say he knows every leaf on every tree, or every crack in the sidewalk, but the ground under his shoes feels just a little like home. 

He heads up to the apartment and grabs the bag before heading to the subway, stopping to say hi to a cat that he passes. 

It's only when he gets to the school that he realises - he has no idea where Daniel's classroom is. A quick visit to reception tells him that it's class B3, in the  _ "big ugly grey building on the left,"  _ and the receptionist's question of "Oh, are you Warren? The kids'll be happy to see you - they love the stories he tells so much," tells him… something. An intangible, barely-there something, but a something nonetheless. It warms Warren's chest, the realisation that Daniel  _ talks  _ about him, tells stories, celebrates him.  _ It's the difference between ruling someone's life,  _ he thinks,  _ and being a part of it.  _

He knocks softly on the door to Daniel's classroom, and nudges it open, standing in the doorway. He watches, silently, as Daniel details to his pupils - 11 and 12 year olds, by the looks of it - on the proper way to handle willow charcoal, and how to effectively use putty rubbers with it. He's a good teacher - confident, attentive; hell, it takes a good couple of minutes for the kids' attentions to drift enough for them to notice him. "Mr Jacobi!" one of them pipes up (and isn't that a strange thing to hear from the mouth of a child, unladen with responsibility, with death) "there's someone at the door." 

Daniel turns around, his lipstick - blue, today - perfectly sharp, despite the charcoal on his face and in his hair. His face melts into a smile as he says "Oh! Warren, hi."

"Hi - I brought your lunch." He gestures awkwardly with the bag he's holding, waving it in midair. 

"Thanks - put it on the desk, would you?" 

Warren goes over and does so, as Daniel turns back to teaching, and his eye catches on a three-part photo frame on the desk. There are three photos in it, obviously, the outer two a photo of Warren and Alana respectively, him in a suit, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth as he half-smiles at the camera, her with her hair tied up in a bun, wrapped in a hoodie, with a cup of coffee in her hand that he remembers the eye-stinging smell of with a stunning clarity. Warren brushes a hand over the frame, wiping off a speck of dust. The middle photo is one of all three of them, sat in Warren's car after a seventeen-hour stakeout; Alana's hair has at least four braids, and Daniel had tied a mat out of the carrier bags they had been using for the snacks. Warren had been caught half in a laugh, his eyes crinkling at a tired joke Daniel had just told. A warmth bursts in Warren's chest at it, and he can't help but wonder if he had loved Daniel, even then. 

(He hadn't - wouldn't have let himself. But it's a nice thought, nonetheless.) 

He makes eye contact with Daniel, when he's done with instructing the kids, and mouths  _ I'm gonna leave,  _ gesturing over his shoulder at the door. Daniel nods, and gives a little half-wave, and as Warren heads out, he hears one of the kids ask that  _ "Mister Jacobi, Sir, is that your boyfriend?"  _ and tries to ignore how his heart flutters at the thought. 

Then Ellie pops her head around the corner, and says, eyebrow raised, "Well? Is he? We have a bet, it's very important." 

Warren is only mildly ashamed to admit that he jumps. "No, he's not," he says, in a vaguely dejected tone that makes it evident he wishes that weren't the case. 

" _ Really? _ " Her eyes go wide in disbelief. "I genuinely thought you two would have gotten your shit together by now. Anyway, come eat lunch with me, I've missed you." 

Warren huffs. "There's no need to be rude about it, Ellie," he says, though he stands up and follows her. 

"I'm not being rude! I just, think that you two should stop dancing around each other and fucking, deal with your shit, you emotionally repressed walnuts!" 

"Language!" 

"Oh, come on, there's no one around. Anyway. You need to tell him you're into him - you are into him, right? Otherwise this'll be very awkward." 

"Yeah, no, I'm so into him. It's kind of embarrassing." He can't quite believe he's said it, even though he's known it for - fuck, for years at this point. 

Ellie grins. "Knew you had it in you - also, you fuck him over and I  _ will  _ skin you. Or just, send your search history to your employers, I don't know." 

"Figures. If you have to skin me, turn me into gloves?" 

She puts her hands on his shoulders, and looks up at him, making stern eye contact. "I mean it, Warren. He's my best friend - please don't hurt him." 

There's a heavy thump of silence in the air, and Warren nods. Ellie lets go of his shoulders, and turns around to grab her food.

Warren speaks up. "Did he ever say that you reminded him of-" 

"Alana Maxwell? Yeah, he did. He said she'd have liked me." 

Warren smiles. "Yeah," he murmurs. "She probably would have." 

Daniel pops his head in through the door not long after, holding his lunch. "Hi Ellie! Oh - hey, Warren, didn't know you were still here; have you got food?" 

Warren abruptly realises that he doesn’t; he hadn’t planned on staying, or on being ambushed by Ellie and given a shovel talk. “Uh, no - shit, it’s fine, I can grab something on the way home - I’ll leave you two to it, or whatever.” 

He stands to leave, but Daniel stops him. “It’s fine - we can share. And-” he says, standing up and heading over to one of Ellie’s cupboards - ”we can steal Ellie’s secret crisps.” 

“Hey! I didn’t say you could do that!” 

“Stop me,” says Daniel, turning on a heel with a delighted smirk on his face. 

She doesn’t, instead upturning her bag onto the table, and revealing a slightly improbable amount of food for one lunch. “What? I like food! Steal some, if you want, goodness knows Daniel does it often enough.” 

“There’s so much  _ fruit. _ ” 

“What, never heard of five a day?” Daniel pipes up, grabbing an orange, and seating himself next to Warren. “Wanna share?” 

“Sure,” Warren says, stealing a segment of orange from Daniel’s hands. The three of them sit in there for lunch, until Daniel has to return to teaching and Warren has to go back home, talking and laughing over nothing. 

(It takes all of Ellie’s strength not to lock them in there together, when she sees the way they touch each other, delicately, but often, as if checking the other is still there.) 

\---

As they walk back to the subway station, before going their separate ways, Daniel and Ellie have a conversation. This isn’t an unusual occurrence, and nor is it even a particularly new conversation, but there’s something different, this time. 

This time, Daniel  _ acts  _ on it. 

The conversation goes like this: 

“You love him.” 

“Yep. Have done for… far too long.” Daniel looks through the shop windows that they pass, trying to avoid Ellie's gaze.

Avoiding her gaze, however, doesn't mean avoiding her words. “He loves you - and don’t try and deny it, I’ve seen how he looks at you.” 

There's a long pause before he replies. 

“I know - I just… I can’t find the words, right Ellie? There’s just - there’s too much between us.”

“And you’re physically allergic to saying the words ‘I love you,’ I know.” 

“I mean, yes, but you don’t have to point it out.” 

Conversation fades for a while, and they arrive at the station, splitting to get their different trains. Right before she leaves, Ellie turns to Daniel, and says, “Just give him your sketchbook, or something - he’ll get the message.” 

She’s on her train before Daniel can thank her for the idea. 

\---

Warren gets a text around seven that evening. That, in and of itself, isn't an unusual occurrence - neither is the text being a fairly short  _ come over.  _

What is unusual, however, is the follow up, a few minutes later.  _ theres something i need to show you.  _

(Daniel had spent those few minutes swapping back between that and  _ i need to tell you something _ . Warren doesn't get to know that, but you do.) 

Warren sends back a one-handed  _ What is it?  _ as he shoves his arms in a jacket, (black, leather, makes him look "roguishly handsome," according to Daniel) and hurriedly pulls on his shoes. 

_ nope. you have to come over if you want to know.  _ Daniel's fingers shake a little as he types, and carry on shaking as he pulls the sketchbook out from under his bed, brushes the dust off of it. He flicks through it, running a tender thumb over the drawings within. 

_ Fine. I'll be over in 15?  _ Warren sends back. Daniel just gives him a thumbs up emoji in reply, and goes to the bathroom to brush and restyle his hair - which he definitely doesn't do four times, thank you very much. 

(He does it five, actually - sue him, he's nervous.) 

Warren's not really sure what to expect as he knocks on the door of Daniel's apartment, but it definitely isn't for a rather jittery - but incredibly well-coiffed - Daniel to shove a stack of sketchbooks into his hands, and take a hurried step back, saying "Just - just look through these, right? I'll be in the kitchen, when you're done." He then backs through the door, and leaves Warren in the living room. 

Warren sits on the sofa, and gently sets the books down on the coffee table. He picks up the top one - started on the fourth of October, 2016, according to the label on the front - and thumbs through it. 

Warren recognises most of the first drawings - or at least, would recognise the photos that they'd have been referenced from. It's page upon page of Warren and Alana, suited up, or undercover, or sat on the shitty bed in a motel. Their faces vary, from broad grins with near-closed eyes, to bare-toothed snarls, even the occasional peaceful calmness of sleep. They're frighteningly accurate, almost as if Daniel had been trying to etch the memory of their faces, their expressions, into his mind, into the muscle memory of his fingers. 

Then Warren realises what the date on the front of the book means - these were all from not too long after his death. Maybe remembering him and Alana had been what Daniel was trying to do all along. 

The next book is similar, though less realistic, and less obviously referenced - the shapes are less precise, the lines less harsh; the drawings look almost like a memory, and Warren tries to ignore the clutch he feels in his chest at the thought of Daniel doing these, at the thought of him committing Warren and Alana's faces to memory so entirely. (The end of the book is torn out, though, and Warren tries not to think too hard on how that happening probably lined up with his return.)

The final book, the one after that, is the only other one with a date on it - tenth of November, 2019 - and it comes with a marked difference in style. Gone is the stiff, precise realism, replaced with smooth, flowing lines. There's a mix of pieces here, too, some full portraits, some small details - hell, there's an entire double page spread that's just Warren's lips, drawn over and over again. His hands, too, are a strong feature. What is most striking about the book, though, isn't these mini studies, numerous as they are. 

It's the fact that, in every single drawing, every single portrait, Warren looks - he looks _beautiful._ There's no other word for it. It's not like he was ever an unattractive man, but there's something in the weight of the lines, the soft smudges of the shadow, that just knocks the breath out of him. They're so soft that it almost _hurts_ \- he, of all people, doesn't deserve to be seen like that. 

As he shuts the book, there is a part of him that is tempted to doubt what he just saw, what Daniel is so obviously trying to say, to  _ confess _ . Not just because he doesn't think he deserves it - though he doesn't - but because it's fucking terrifying _.  _ Being known like that, being  _ loved  _ like that, is the most intimately horrifying thing he can imagine. 

But it's the most lovely, too.

That, and the fact that he knows the swooping mix of fear and hope in his stomach has to be  _ nothing  _ compared to what Daniel is feeling, is what makes him stand up, and walk to the kitchen. 

Daniel's pacing around, chewing on his nails, perfect hair now a mess.

"Hey," Warren says, and Daniel freezes in place, one foot still in midair. "I… god, you're incredible, you know?"

The foot sinks back to the ground. "So that means you don't hate me, right? Because if you want to leave, and give me a few months to get over these goddamn feelings, you're allowed to, don't feel like you have to stay just to make me-" 

Warren kisses him. It's not fireworks, or lightning, or anything like that. It's just soft, sweet - something like coming home. 

Daniel finishes his sentence, in a voice quiet with shock. "-happy." A couple of seconds pass before he just says " _ Oh, _ " and pulls Warren in by the shirt collar, kissing him again. 

They pull apart, eventually, and Daniel speaks. "There's something you should know, though. I can't tell people I," his voice gets quiet, "I love them. I just can't do it." 

"That's fine," says Warren, and then he murmurs, "I don't love you, then," hoping that Daniel understands what he means by it. 

Daniel's eyes go wide, but his expression quickly softens with realisation, and he presses his forehead against Warren's. 

"I don't love you, too." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Danny? Titling a work after its last line? Who'da thunk. Hope you enjoyed! If you did, leave me a comment, they are like forehead kisses. Or other affectionate gestures. Love y'all

**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter should be up next thursday, feel free to harass me @dansnotavampire on twitter and tumblr, and @dansnotavampire-art on instagram if i forget (or just to yell about these two, to be honest.) Kudos and comments are, as always, greatly appreciated.


End file.
